A Wish Your Heart Makes
by shan14
Summary: It's well past midnight and Will has slipped into dreams; floating somewhere between a small island in the pacific and an anonymous pair of legs that slide up to reveal – well, then the phone rings and he'll never know.
1. A Wish Your Heart Makes

**A/N:** Firstly, to all the gorgeous people who have been reviewing my other two stories. Bless you all! You guys are awesome! Here is some promised more!

This was written for a prompt over at The Newsoom Ficathon on LJ. It's awesome, if you haven't already, you should check it out.

_Prompt:_ Mac wakes Will up on his birthday

* * *

It's well past midnight and Will has slipped into dreams; floating somewhere between a small island in the pacific and an anonymous pair of legs that slide up to reveal – well,

then the phone rings and he'll never know.

He startles awake and with a groan that would rival the undead, flips his still lagging body over to face his bedside table. His phone is illuminated in the dark, a piercing, bright light that has him blinking, and through the hazy fog of half sleep he can just make out Mackenzie's name on the id.

He considers ignoring it. Considers rolling back over and throwing the covers over his head and perhaps calling her back sometime in the morning – its Friday, no, _Saturday _morning!

She might own him for an hour every weekday but the weekends are his own and she's not allowed to infringe.

He's halfway back to sleep already, but the phone won't stop ringing and really, there might be something wrong. Mackenzie can be annoyingly persistent but even she understands basic principles like sleeping on a Saturday.

He leans over with a huff and picks up his phone, barking an indiscernible greeting into the speaker.

Mackenzie's voice, when she answers, is soft; breathy – like she wasn't actually expecting him to pick up. "Will?"

"Yes."

"You're there," she says, a little surprised.

"So it would seem. You did ring my phone Mackenzie," he mutters, rolling onto his back and pressing a finger to his forehead. He squeezes the bridge of his nose and winces when his eyes start to water. It's much too early in the morning to be navigating her world – and the water and the sand in his dream had been so inviting, not to mention those legs...

"Is there a reason you're calling me?" he grumbles, and she gives this little gasp, like she's only just realized she has to respond, that has Will rolling his eyes but unable to quell the burst of fondness blooming in his chest.

It's a constant problem around Mackenzie – his deep-seated betrayal and the general annoyance of her bubbly existence, coupled with an infused joy that tingles through him when ever she smiles.

Slowly Will's eyes are adjusting to the dark and revealing caverns of shadows across his walls and windows. He locks his eyes on the corner of his blinds and awaits what ever explanation she has coming.

"I just wanted to say," she begins, and her voice sounds small, but strong, down the speaker, "that we should perhaps focus more time on Sloan's segment this week. She's been pushing me for a while now to let her explain the...inner workings of things that I don't really understand...but I'm pretty sure she's almost always right about them."

She pauses awkwardly and Will can imagine her screwing her forehead up at her own words. Economics has never meshed well with her loquacious manner. She tends to just wave her hands around and gesture for Will or Sloan to continue.

He can hear her suck in a quiet breath as they pause, and Will wishes he knew what on earth she was thinking. Mackenzie calling him at odd hours of the morning isn't exactly foreign, but it's something he's been attempting to weed out of their relationship for months, ever since his bout with insomnia was dealt with and he started valuing his relationship with his pillow again.

"Mackenzie," he groans, pinching the creases across his forehead in an attempt to stop his voice catching with annoyance. "Couldn't we discuss this on Monday?" he sighs, and he would swear that he can hear her falter.

"Yes, of course," she stutters, and Will feels like a bit of an ass.

She's been doing that to him more often lately – making him feel guilty when he glares at her, or shuts her off, or makes snide remarks. Perhaps it's fair – lord knows she's taken more shit from him than anyone else in history.

"I think it's a good idea," he concedes, and the guilt abates slightly.

There's still an awkward pause over the phone, almost like she wants to say more, and so Will shuffles to his side to peer at the clock whilst she dallies. It's nearing one in the morning and it's Saturday, meaning he should probably order some groceries and get his laundry sorted. Mackenzie is still procrastinating in his ear, and so Will lets his mind drift to the month ahead. He has a charity function to attend sometime next week, but he can't quite remember what day it is. He starts counting the dates backwards, and it is whilst he's on Sunday, that he realizes what the current date is and suddenly the silence in his ear makes sense.

He may or may not let out a slight grunt of recognition, and Mackenzie's breath catches like she knows he's figured her out.

"It's late Mackenzie," he reminds her, but his voice is soft and warm.

He thinks she's probably nodding in agreement and then she lets out a little laugh, "Yes, I know. I'm sorry."

He hates hearing her say sorry.

"Well, then – goodnight," he murmurs.

The phone in his ear remains silent and then Mackenzie is returning the wish. "Goodnight Will," she sighs, and he goes to hang up.

"Wait!"

He pauses, phone held tight to his ear.

"Happy Birthday Billy," she says.

Will feels that strange burst of warmth spread from his heart down to the tips of his fingers, tingling through his veins and igniting his blood and making his stomach knot a little as she giggles.

She hangs up without further comment and Will lets the phone slide from his grasp, down his cheek. The light blinks off and the room returns to darkness, only the shifting shadows behind his blinds giving life to the night outside.

In the morning he will field calls from his siblings, and a few selected friends might drop him a message. His twitter page will be flooded with fans and those who equally despise him.

But at one in the morning, in the first hour of his birthday, with Mackenzie's soft voice calling him Billy in his ear; Will lets himself think about birthday wishes, and then, he smiles.


	2. When You're Fast Asleep

**A/N: **A second prompt for Will's birthday. Because I believe that this was more what the prompter intended :P And hey, look. Apparently I'm incapable of writing these two without it taking place at 2 in the morning whilst they're asleep. I promise I'll remedy that soon. Unless you like the sleepy fluff...in which case it can continue.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Will does manage to make it into bed at a reasonable hour once in a while.

Mackenzie is very fond of his bed – of his pillow and his blankets and his mattress that smells like vanilla because according to him, she insists on bathing in scented bubble bath like a three year old. The fragrance seeps into his everything – his bedding and his clothes and the walls of the apartment. Sometimes she even catches it on his skin, and then she ends up smiling bashfully, because she likes the thought that she's rubbed off on him in a literal way as well.

She's pressed up against his side in the early hours of the morning with her head buried in his neck and her legs curled up towards his chest. Her feet are tucked in against his thigh and Will has never been able to figure out how she reaches this position; when they fall asleep she's all long legs and graceful, but by the time he wakes she's crawled into a ball on his chest. He comments on it early in their relationship and she simply shrugs and says "according to my mother I've always slept like that," and then resumes buttoning her blouse whilst he looks on, still beneath the covers. Her hair is always messy in the mornings and tangles easily as she moves, but Will likes pressing his lips to her forehead through her fringe, so he deals with the strands that inevitably get in the way by sifting his fingers through them rhythmically.

They'd finished work early the night before, and after collapsing onto the lounge and throwing out suggestions for food whilst she traced a finger down his chest, Will had made the executive decision to ignore his stomach and had instead carried her the few meters to the bedroom.

She was glad of it at the time. Now however, as the clock ticks steadily towards three in the morning, she wakes fast to a growling in her stomach that she knows will not go away.

She huffs softly. Will's hand is on her back, keeping her pressed to his chest, but she knows that she's small enough to wiggle free if she's careful. She doesn't have to worry about catching the corner of her pajamas as his fingers tighten, so she slides her body away, and as her bare feet hit the floor she loops his dress shirt up and over her shoulders.

It hangs long down her torso, almost to her knees, but the sleeves are rolled up to her elbows in a way that's grown familiar. The first time she'd worn his clothes, when he was still her boss and she was still a little in awe of him, she'd seen the subtle shift in his eyes and had vowed to wear her own clothes as little as possible.

Now, the kitchen is dark and quiet, but the clock on the oven alerts her to the time, and the growl in her stomach won't give up. She opens the fridge and blinks wearily as the light momentarily blinds her. She often forgets about things like that – that the light will hurt when its dark, or that she's likely to trip if she doesn't walk with her hand along the wall. She can remember the details of each political movement on the globe and can analyse the hell out of their practices and policies – but give her the simple task of walking and she has the tendency to fail.

Will teases her mercilessly about it, but his laughter is laced with a quiet fondness that sends tingles down to her toes when she thinks about it.

Looking in the fridge (when her eyes finally adjust) she realizes there's very little hope of finding anything edible. There's beer, and a few droopy looking vegetables that she's sure she bought a few weeks back, and a leftover box of Chinese take out – none of which will do.

She stands in the artificial light of the refrigerator and considers her possibilities. She could settle for the box of crackers that she knows is hidden in the pantry. She could possibly even pull together and cook something out of the freezer. But it's a special day, and by now she's decided Will is going to have to share her three in the morning breakfast, so if she's going to have food it's got to be spectacular.

She tiptoes back to the bedroom (careful to run her hand along the wall) and slips on a pair of leggings. His jumper hangs over the back of a chair, and she slips that on over his dress shirt, rolling the sleeves up so they hang just past her wrist and stuffing her fingers in the edge of the fabric to keep them warm. She grabs her purse off the bedside table and slides her phone into her pocket. She considers leaving a note, but decides not to. The chances of Will waking whilst she's gone are minute. But by the time she's made it to the front door she's thought better – he _might_ wake up – and the last thing she wants is cause him panic on this morning.

She scribbles a hasty note on a post it and sticks it to her pillow where he's sure to find it and then with her feet slipped into a pair of runners that were left by the door, she steps out into the hallway towards the elevator.

Down on the street the New York night is cold and blustery. Will's jumper is hardly a deterrent to the savage beat of the wind, but it's only a block to the corner store and she's quick on her feet when she needs to be. For a brief moment she considers her stupidity – absconding down the street in the middle of the night in barely any clothing is surely not at the top of the list of safe things to do – but by the time she's worried herself into a state of anxiety she's stepping foot in the store and has hurried to the back.

She dallies for a second over different flavours and then spots a box of brightly decorated candles that will look perfect. On tiptoes she pays at the counter, jumping from foot to foot whilst the cashier bags her items, and then scampers back out in the freeze with the plastic bag swinging at her knees.

Will's never been one to celebrate, though he seemed quite intent on making her birthday the best it had ever been, so she thinks its only right that they start his off the same way. She's pretty sure there's a bottle of champagne in the apartment and neither of them has work in the morning. They can celebrate now, and then sleep a little, and then celebrate some more.

She's halfway through the logistics of how to never leave the bed when she steps into the elevator to ride back up to their level.

She unlocks the door quietly, because waking Will only to have him believe they are being robbed is perhaps not the best way to start her planned festivities, and slips her shoes and his jumper off in the kitchen. With a dexterity that seems to elude her on most other days, she gets his cake ready and lights the candles, ponders whether she should keep the leggings, and then decides they're really not necessary. Will has been quite vocal in his appreciation of her legs and she wouldn't want to deprive him. He'll only end up taking them off himself, so she may as well save him the trouble.

The hallway is dark as she slips back towards their room, but the light from the candles guides her and she's only a little unsteady, hyped up with excitement, when she pushes back through the door.

Will, the darling man, is still fast asleep, and she takes a moment to appreciate the figure he cuts in the moonlight. The curve of his shoulder down to his waist, the way his hair gets scruffy and falls across his forehead as he shuffles around in bed. He's restless without her their to ground him, he tosses and turns and on nights when one of them is away he'll often call her around midnight, whispering into her ear how much he misses having her octopus limbs pinning him to the mattress.

She sets the cake on the beside table, candles starting to drip, and drops down onto the bed, crawling carefully across until she's leaning over his shoulder, and only then does she press her body down onto his, kissing at his neck and then nuzzling up towards his earlobe.

"Will," she murmurs.

He grunts, and tries to turn, pulling her closer towards him.

"Will, wake up," she giggles. She kisses the corner of his lips and he begins to smile, eyelids fluttering. "Billy," she needles, "Come on honey."

"S'not honey," is his mumbled response.

Mackenzie presses her mouth to the curve of his collarbone and tries not to laugh. He's hated the nickname ever since it originated, but sometimes she can't help it – for all the pleasure she derives from calling him Billy, she gets equal amounts from watching the way he goes crazy at the endearment.

"Happy Birthday darling," she murmurs, and captures his lips.

Will surges up, wrapping an arm around her stomach to curl her closer, and Mackenzie drops her elbow to the mattress to keep from falling on top of him. Will doesn't seem to mind, however, now intent on kissing his way down her jaw line, but the flicker of candles in the night draws his attention and before long he's leaning back to glance at the table.

"What's all this?" he murmurs, and Mackenzie blushes and hides her head against his chest. She's tucked into his lap as Will settles back against the wall, but she leans back to shrug, grinning wickedly, and then leans in for a kiss.

"Happy Birthday to you," she breathes, "Happy birthday to you," he starts laughing, "Happy Birthday dear Billy. Happy birthday to you."

His laugh is slow. It rumbles deep in his chest and as it rises she can feel the huffs of breath against her forehead. She leans over his side and pulls the cake onto the bed. It's a little chocolate one, not bigger than the palm of her hand, and the two candles she'd placed a top it are drooping dangerously in the middle.

With all the enthusiasm of a child, Will draws a deep breathe and blows them out, plunging the room into darkness and leaving him with a handful of chocolate and a lap full of Mackenzie. He's not sure which he loves most.

Through the scattered moonlight through the blinds and with the solid weight of her in his lap, he catches her hand and holds it to his heart, pressing her fingers to the steady beat.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and then leaning down for a kiss, wishes for many birthdays to come


End file.
